


Give and Take

by the_original_n_chan



Series: Unicorne [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Intersex Character, Jean Is a Magical Creature, M/M, Soul Bond, Unicorns, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_original_n_chan/pseuds/the_original_n_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Marco's first time is not what either of them had expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give and Take

**Author's Note:**

> This is a side story to my fic "[Unicorne](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1809256/chapters/3882277)," set just after chapter 5. You can probably get away without reading the main story; basically, Jean is a unicorn (with a human form), Marco is alive, and you can pretty much figure out how things are with the two of them from there.
> 
> Please do read the tags to this one--there are elements here that were not necessarily foreshadowed in the main story. If this is something you don't want to see, please exercise your back button. (If you prefer your Jean/Marco smut fics with more conventional male genitalia, you might want to skip ahead to the next side story, "[Guy Style](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2155863)," which I've finally gotten around to posting.)
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to the original creators. No copyright infringement is intended.

Somehow they always seem to end up on Marco’s bed. Jean isn’t sure why—whether it’s because it’s the first place they ever did anything like this, or because there’s something welcoming about Marco that seeps into the spaces he inhabits and makes them irresistible to Jean (it could also be his scent; Jean is weak against his scent), or maybe it’s that on some level it feels just the tiniest bit safer, because Marco’s bed is on the side of the room that’s behind the door, which would give them an extra split second to achieve decency if someone—probably Connie—came bursting in. At this precise instant, though, he doesn’t really care about reasons (and there’s no way they could get decent that quickly anyway). All he cares about is that they’re tangled together, nearly naked, and that Marco is kissing a slow trail down his front; his entire body feels like it’s humming, an unspooled mess of bliss and quivering need, and yet at the same time he’s strangely relaxed, almost floating, because this is so very right. The next step that they’ve been moving inevitably toward since that first touch, that first kiss. He’s so ready.

Marco reaches the waistband of his underwear and pauses; even though Jean’s eyes are closed, he can tell that Marco’s looking up at him, can imagine the fond expression he’s wearing, that affection made smoky by desire. “Okay?” Marco murmurs.

“Mm-hmm.” Marco slips his fingers under the fabric, and Jean raises his hips a little to let Marco pull the shorts down, inhales, low and shivery, as he feels himself exposed. The shorts continue their unhurried slide down his thighs—and stop. And then nothing. 

Jean opens his eyes, frowning with unease as an old anxiety tugs at the back of his mind. The first thing he sees is Marco staring down at him, head cocked, wearing a look of surprise and puzzlement. An icy chill grips him. “What?”

Marco has to grope for the words, and the cold intensifies, freezing around his heart. “You’re...different,” Marco manages at last.

Jean’s eyes widen; he can’t breathe; he feels his world crack, sharp and sudden as a gunshot. Shoving himself up on his elbows, he stares down along his body and sees something that he hasn’t seen in years. 

“ _SHIT!_ ” Horrified, he squirms backward, trying to scramble away from Marco, gets nowhere before he can’t fight the reflex to cover himself and has to fling one hand over his crotch. The other clamps across his mouth, trembling, drives his lips against his teeth so hard they feel bruised. 

“Jean, what—”

“I-I-I was born like this.” He’s shaking so hard in the effort not to scream that he can barely get the words out. “It, it— _fixed_ when—b-before I signed up for training.” Somehow his disappointed father had evolved a theory that it would get...better...when he reached puberty, and it _had_ , he’d grown, changed, become normal, hadn’t let himself think about what he used to be like because it didn’t matter anymore and god, why, why, _why?_ Isn’t it enough that he’s a fucking magical animal without having a freak human body as well? Maybe the two are connected somehow—maybe it’s like his transformation, maybe it’s something he can control, and he wriggles his hips, desperately tries to feel his way to normalcy. “M-Maybe I can shift back—”

“Stop—Jean, _stop_.” Marco puts his hand on Jean’s arm, his grip firm and certain, calming, if it were remotely possible for Jean to be calm right now. His gaze is fixed on Jean’s; his expression is intent, serious, painfully sincere, and still Jean is so, so scared, light-headed and shocky with anguish; why in front of Marco, why did this have to happen, if he loses Marco because of this he’ll die. He already wants to die from shame. Marco pulls at his arm, slowly, steadily, not demanding but relentlessly persistent; he resists, resists, and then can’t anymore. With a low sob of breath he lets Marco move his hand. He can’t bear to look at himself again, but he can feel—he’s lost his erection, what was left of it to lose, and he’s, he’s _wet_ , in a way he knows he shouldn’t be. He can’t imagine any way he could be more repulsive.

And when, after a few moments of silent gazing, Marco leans down toward him, he’s appalled. _No, Marco, don’t_ flashes through his head, but his throat is locked too tight for words. He couldn’t look, but now he can’t stop staring as Marco bows his head—

—kisses him—

_—there._

Marco’s lips are warm and yielding, lingering on the curve of his softened shaft. They kiss along its sad length; then Marco shifts lower, presses them to the folds and falls of flesh that used to be—and Jean can’t, he can’t watch this, he sinks down, lies back, his free hand faltering up to join the one covering his mouth, not stifling screams anymore but the tremendous, shattering sob that wants to break out of him. He’s helpless when the tears rise and overflow, streaking down the sides of his face, can only squeeze his eyes shut and shake because this is so awful, but it feels—it feels so good. His body throbs, his heart feels like it’s swelling with an impossible ecstasy of relief or being crushed by terror—maybe both at once—and the whisper of breath on damp skin as Marco raises his head makes him shiver, not with cold. “Okay?” Marco whispers.

“...don’t stop.” His voice is a tiny, broken thing. So pathetic. Marco murmurs wordlessly in response, and then his mouth settles onto Jean again. He eases Jean’s legs farther apart, trails his tongue along the creases in slow exploration, licks at him—licks _into_ him, and Jean yelps, high and thin. He fists his hands in the sheets, trying to hold himself to the bed, but his back arches anyway. Flicker and slide, moving in him, _tasting_ him—the thought and the feel of it together, and he’s panting, coming undone. _Thinks_ he’s undone, and then Marco’s tongue presses, strokes—“That!” Jean throws back his head as the sensation shudders through him. “Hhh—there!” Marco hums against him with what sounds like satisfaction, dwells on that spot, lick and lick and suck until Jean is moaning, the muscles in his thighs quivering, pleasure pulsing through him, there, and— _there_ , he’s hard, and he doesn’t know what to do with this body, all the different ways it aches and needs. Marco’s tongue slides away from him, to be replaced in an instant by his fingers, still working at Jean, slowly plunging in the slickness, and Jean barely has time to register the change before he feels Marco’s other hand at the base of his dick, then the heat and breath of Marco’s mouth. Marco takes him in; he’s...smaller, and Marco engulfs him easily. And _oh_ , how it feels as Marco suckles on him, the way the wet suction pulls at him, the way the ring of Marco’s lips strokes him up and down, _up, down_ , the hot curl of Marco’s tongue, and it all builds and builds until Marco’s tongue— _there_ —and the pressure of his fingers, and Jean is over the edge, gasping out a frantic cry as he falls, _comes_ , clamping and spasming around Marco’s fingers. The rush shudders through his body, rolling from that flashpoint of release all the way down to his curling toes, up to the flare going off in sparks inside his head, until finally he seizes one last time and then goes limp. 

The aftershocks dwindle; he feels his chest heaving, the sweat already cooling on his skin, the lingering burn of pleasure licking along his nerves even as it fades. His eyes are stinging, hot and wet. As Marco sits back, Jean scrubs fiercely at his face with the heel of his palm, then twists away to snatch one of the linens they’ve laid by for cleanup. Under cover of blotting the sweat from his face, he wipes away the remnants of those humiliating tears, and only then can he glance sidelong at Marco. Marco has hitched himself up the bed to sit next to Jean; he looks satisfied, maybe even a little smug, but also deeply concerned, which is probably a combination that only Marco can do. Something wet glistens on his lips, his chin; at Jean’s frown, he starts, seems to realize what’s smeared on his face. Blushing, he goes to wipe it on his upper arm, and with a growl Jean shoves the cloth at him. Grabbing another one, Jean sits up, towels at his thighs with grim determination. Even though it felt so good, so terribly, blissfully, amazingly good—he still can’t stand to look at himself.

Hurling the cloth onto the floor, he flings himself down again, curls up on his side. Marco tosses the other cloth after his, then settles against his back. Marco’s arm folds around him, slow and careful, Marco’s palm coming to rest over his heart, and Jean wonders if Marco can feel how its beat jumps at that touch. 

“All right?” Marco murmurs into his hair.

“Mmnn.” His chest feels tight. How can Marco be so good to him? Closing his eyes, he swallows hard, tries to let himself sink into the easy rhythm of Marco’s breathing. “It wasn’t, um...gross?” His voice breaks just a little.

“No.” Marco nuzzles closer. In a tone that would be sly if it wasn’t so tender, he adds, “I liked it,” and Jean can feel the truth rippling from him, radiant, warm.

He can also feel, much more physically, the stiff length of Marco’s dick nudge up against him before Marco shifts position, self-consciously putting a little space between them. The awareness makes him catch his breath, sends possibilities whirling dizzyingly behind his eyes. His fingers dig into the sheets as he fights down panic. And he knows that he doesn’t have to, that Marco would absolutely accept it if Jean just offered to jerk him off, or even said _I can’t, no more, not right now._

But....

Twisting abruptly in Marco’s arms, Jean cranes his neck to look back at him. “Do...do you want to?” He stumbles over the words, his face flaming. “Since I’ve got a, uh....”

Somehow Marco manages to interpret that. His eyes widen as a look of shock passes over his face; then his brow creases with anxiety. “You’re, um...small? I think? I...don’t want to hurt you.” Marco is... _not_ particularly small, and Jean’s stomach clenches at the thought until he feels almost ill. Something inside him is screaming that he’s lost his mind. But he knows fear from their maneuver gear training, the terror of that first-ever leap into space, he’d seen other recruits succumb to it and be sent home in shame, and he knows that if he pulls back from the edge now the dread will only grow, become something looming, monstrous, too crushing to overcome, and then he might _never_ , and—and—

—and he finds that he wants to share this with Marco. If only once.

He _wants_ to. 

Wriggling around further until he’s on his back, Jean grips Marco’s arm. “Try.” The whisper grates out of him; he swallows again, clears his throat. His eyes skitter about Marco’s face until he forces them to settle, holding Marco’s gaze with something approaching evenness. “Let’s...let’s try. To.” 

And Marco doesn’t attempt to talk him out of it—no _are you sure_ and _I don’t think_. Jean trembles at that because it means that this time Marco isn’t going to save him from himself, but he’s also glad for it, a tiny, brittle, luminous gladness, because—Marco isn’t going to save him. Marco’s taking him at his word, respecting his decision, and he won’t have to keep going over this ground trying to defend it, won’t have to keep fighting the fear.

All he has to do is fall.

Marco strips Jean’s underwear the rest of the way off, then removes his own—shifts over slowly, settling above him, and Jean makes himself breathe. This is a thing. This is a thing he can do. Marco’s already been down there once and not had hysterics. And they’d sort of talked about, about someone taking it, not as a definite plan, but it had certainly been on the table as a possibility, and that hole had to be...smaller. Didn’t it?

Oh god. Why is the thought of _that_ not even so alarming, but this....

Marco leans off the bed, stretching to reach the just-in-case bottle of oil on the nightstand, and Jean scowls, clutches at the distraction. Anything to stop himself from thinking. “Do we actually need that? I’m still...kind of....” He moves his hips, tenses unfamiliar muscles, and wrinkles his nose at the squelchy feeling.

“A little extra can’t hurt.” Marco sounds improbably calm; only a slight drop in pitch and the barest tremor in his voice hint at anything else. Something in Jean’s gut coils at the wet noises as Marco slicks himself, the way his breath catches—the knowledge that Marco is hard, still hard for him, wants him, _wants_ —and Marco has positioned himself between Jean’s legs, is lining himself up, and—

“Wait!” Jean grabs for Marco, cups both hands around his head, pulls him up until their foreheads touch. Marco inhales sharply, startled, then breathes out slow, their breaths mingle—and Marco is shining through Jean, into Jean, like dawn breaking inside his head, light pouring into every part of him: _bright, true, good._ Safe. And like that, Jean can let go. Uncurling his fingers, he lets Marco draw back—loses himself for a long moment in the softness of Marco’s gaze before finally he nods. 

“Okay.”

It doesn’t hurt. There’s just the push, the slide, the way it stretches him— _stretches_ , wider, wider, more as Marco sinks into him, so slow, and—“ _oh_ ,” Marco whispers, “ _Jean_ ,” and Jean thinks that hearing such shattered, trembling amazement in Marco’s voice would be worth anything. 

He’s trembling too. His legs come up to clamp around Marco’s waist; he clings to Marco desperately as Marco fills him, as his body strains around Marco’s dick, not pain, no, but _oh, oh, shit, it’s so much._ His breath hisses between his teeth, then huffs out of him in shock as the head of Marco’s dick butts up against something that yields, barely, then resists, sending a sharp twinge of protest through his body. Marco pauses, then leans against him, shifting angle slightly, and— _oof_ —still nothing.

“I...I think that’s it? That’s as far as it goes?” He doesn’t think Marco is even seated all the way, and his face heats with frustration at his stupid, weird, insufficient body. “I-Is this okay—”

“It’s fine! It’s good.” Marco’s sides rise and fall against Jean’s thighs as he pants the words, his head bowed over Jean’s chest. “You’re _perfect_.” Jean finds that hard to believe, but it makes warmth pool in his stomach anyway, because he knows that Marco means it, that on Marco’s lips it must be true. He snorts dismissively anyway, awkwardness twisting in him, and glances aside.

“Well, if _that’s_ all there is, at least it means I can’t get pregnant,” he mutters. Then the implications of that careless comment smack into him, and his eyes snap wide. “Shit!”

Marco jerks his head up and stares, the shock on his face almost matching Jean’s as he sucks in a startled breath. “Oh! I didn’t even think of that before—”

Jean is frozen, throat closing in panic even as he starts to babble frantically, “I, I can’t, can I? I mean—”

“No, no, I don’t—if that’s really all, then—” Marco stops, swallows, breathes, then actually manages to smile and sound reassuring as he says, “There needs to be a lot more. I think you just have part of a...a vagina. And if it stops there, and there’s nothing else, then there’s absolutely no way.”

Jean narrows his eyes. He’s never actually seen a woman’s private parts, he doesn’t think Marco has either, and he has only the vaguest idea of what goes on up in there, wombs and things, so how is Marco this certain? “How do you even know?” he challenges.

“Farm boy. Remember?” Marco’s smile cracks a little wider. “I’ve seen some things that...I’m not going to tell you about. It’d ruin the mood.”

The mood, he says, when they’re here discussing Jean’s internal organs, but Marco’s amused look warms Jean in spite of himself, and the whole thing is just so fucking bizarre that he suddenly can’t even take any of it seriously. Pursing his lips, he gives Marco a mock-suspicious glower and growls, “Do I have to be jealous of the sheep?”

“Jean! That’s filthy.” Marco cuffs Jean’s shoulder, but only lightly; he’s laughing. “No! Knock it off, or I actually _will_ tell you all about calving.” Marco’s eyes dance, his face is deeply flushed; his body shifts against Jean, inside him, as he chuckles again, and this is so strangely intimate that Jean’s chest tightens, his heart throbs almost painfully, he’s falling into wonder at how... _easy_ it is to be with Marco. Even like this.

With a last huff of breath, Marco looks down at Jean, his smile lingering, fond now, the edge of wickedness fading to be replaced with something deep and quiet, luminous, adoring, and Jean reaches up to brush his fingers across Marco’s cheek, to trace the scattering of freckles.

He loves Marco. He loves him so hard he can barely breathe.

“Okay?” Marco murmurs. Jean can’t even speak; he nods. “Do you want to stop?” A headshake, this time. He can’t stop gazing into Marco’s face. Marco tilts his head into Jean’s hand and bends nearer, his breath catching. “Th-Then can I...? Please?”

Oh god—Marco has been so patient with him. Jean doesn’t even know how he can still be hard after all this, but he is. Jean bites his lip, trying to contain all this emotion, then nods again, sharp and jerky. “Yeah.”

Marco rocks his hips back, then forward, slow. A breath escapes him, half whisper, half sob. He moves again, and Jean presses his palms to Marco’s sides to feel how his body flexes, how his muscles tense and ease. Marco slides within Jean, thick, hot, so much, yet somehow not enough, because Jean feels like he could drink up this friction forever, the way each slide drags pleasure through Marco’s body, the way that pleasure trembles in Marco’s face, in the quiver of his slightly parted lips, the flutter of his lashes. And—it’s good, strange but good, the press, the pull, the way his body yields to take Marco in, the way skin rubs on skin, the heat that grows inside him. That he wants more of.

He runs his hands along Marco’s sides, under his arms, curls them up around Marco’s shoulders and pulls him nearer. Squeezes his thighs tighter against Marco’s hips. “Good,” he breathes, “it’s good. Do...what you want to. Take what you need.”

“ _Jean_.” Marco’s voice splinters, cracking high. “ _Shit—_ ” and Jean hides an unexpected grin in Marco’s shoulder because he just made Marco fucking _swear_.

Marco’s pace picks up; his thrusts become sharper, a little less controlled; his breath rumbles low in his chest as he sinks deeper—closer to all the way in, Jean thinks with vague startlement, and how can that—but there’s no discomfort this time, just an intensifying stretch, a new and different give, like his body is shifting inside, _shaping_ itself to Marco, and that should possibly be a really disturbing thought, but more than anything it arouses Jean. He is suddenly, shockingly hot. Gasping, he tries to pull Marco even closer, fingers digging into Marco’s skin, pushes back into each thrust, trying to take in even more. “Yes,” he hisses, prays, “yesss...c’mon.” Their bodies are an amazement, how they fit, how they move together, how they stroke this burning intoxication from each other’s flesh. His blood pounds; his heat builds, builds. He’s hard again, and he lets go of Marco with one hand in order to grip himself. His dick is different, not just in size but in shape, in where it wants most to be touched, and he fumbles for some frustrating moments, trying to recreate whatever Marco did. He settles for just jerking himself off, quick and sharp, but there’s this _ache_ that throbs to the rhythm of their fucking, that’s almost but not quite getting what it needs, and it’s making him crazy. “Marco—shit— _where_ —”

Reaching in between them, Marco presses in with his thumb, starts rubbing, fondling, _that, that_ —“ _ah!_ ”—and Jean bucks up wildly, grinds into his hand, into the thrust of his dick, until Marco moans, stammers Jean’s name. Their hands are together, brushing, tangling as they both touch him, frantic now, like the jerk of Marco’s hips as he drives into Jean, faster but erratic—close, getting close, almost, and Jean wants to spill Marco over that edge, to fall with him, fall hard, now, right now. “C’mon, Marco,” he pants, and Marco groans desperately.

“Jean, I can’t—g-gonna—” His face scrunches; his shoulders bow in tension. “Is it all right if I—c-come. In you.”

 _Oh_ —“Yes!” Jean gasps, rolls his hips, tightens himself fiercely around Marco as if he can wring the orgasm out of him, no thought in his head now but _want_. “Yes—come on, _do_ it—” and Marco gasps too, pitches forward into Jean with a strangled _nnf!_ , his eyes screwing shut as his last thrust stutters into shuddering twitches. Every inch of Marco’s skin is suddenly alive for Jean, alight, ecstasy pouring off him, his come flooding Jean in soaking bursts, filling him, and it feels— _he can’t_ —feels so good— _can’t stop_ —the pleasure shaking through Marco, through him as he burns, clenches, _comes-comes-comes—fuck!_ He’d never known he could be swept up like this, swept out of himself; all he can do is hold onto Marco while it all quakes through him, until at last it ebbs. He collapses finally, all his limbs going slack, dropping away from Marco into a limp, exhausted sprawl. Above him, Marco slumps, sighs. After a moment, he pulls out wetly, then stretches out on his side next to Jean, and the two of them just lie there and breathe.

Jean’s pulse has just about stepped down to normal when Marco says, a little hesitantly, “Jean? Was it...all right?”

With an effort, Jean reengages his brain, at least enough to manage words. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Oh god, yeah. Better than. What, you couldn’t tell?” He’s not sure he wants to replay the memory in his own mind, the way he’d dissolved into a complete mess of _fuck me_ , but thinking about it even a little warms his blood. Speaking of mess, though—he stirs his legs experimentally, then groans as he feels how filthily wet he is. “Ecch. I’m dis—”

Marco’s fingers touch his mouth, and he starts at their abruptness. Turning his head, he sees Marco gazing at him, grave and intent. 

“Don’t say you’re disgusting,” Marco murmurs.

His hand draws back quickly, as if he’s abashed at the gesture. Jean doesn’t know what to say. His mouth is a little damp; he licks at his lip before he thinks about it, about where Marco’s fingers have recently been, and he has no idea what he’s tasting, the oil, or himself. His face heats furiously, and to conceal the flush he rolls away, grabbing for the towels. “Still gotta clean up,” he mumbles.

He ends up sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Marco, giving himself an illusion of privacy as he wipes at his thighs, sops up the slick between his legs. He’s still going to need a bath, hopefully sooner rather than later, but at least nothing is dripping out of him. As he drops the towel and looks at the unobstructed view of himself, his mouth draws down. Even if it did...even if he’d felt good through it...still.... Inhaling a little shakily, he lays his hand over it and concentrates, tries to reach back within himself to how it was. 

_There...._

He moves his hand, sighs that breath out again in a low grunt. He’s back. Cautiously he curls his hand around himself, as if what he’s seeing might disappear. Regular, normal dick and balls—maybe the slightest, teeniest, least significant, hardly-worth-mentioning bit on the small side of average, but perfectly adequate. Entirely male.

“Why,” he whispers, his throat tight, “does this feel _wrong?_ ”

Behind him, Marco shifts closer, curls around Jean’s hip to see what he’s looking at. After a moment, still wordless, he tugs at Jean to lie down. Forgoing the idea of washing up for the moment, Jean settles onto his side, lets Marco spoon up behind him. They end up like this more often than not; Marco isn’t that much bigger than he is, but they fit together so right, and Marco loves holding him like this.

To be honest, he sort of loves it too.

After a while, Marco says quietly, “You know, I didn’t fall for you because of what’s between your legs.”

Of course Marco would say that. It’s not a surprise, really, not something he wouldn’t expect, but it still makes Jean’s heart twinge: a reflexive small sting of denial set against a vastly wider, more complicated sweep of emotion. Biting his lip, he closes his eyes.

“Although,” and Marco’s tone turns musing, oddly light, “I _did_ notice your butt pretty early on.” Jean’s eyes pop open again. Did he actually really just hear that? “And your legs.” Marco presses his cheek to Jean’s shoulder, and Jean can almost feel his smile. “You have _amazing_ legs.”

He doesn’t even know how to process this. At least positioned like they are Marco can’t see him blush. 

And it dawns on him then, as he lies folded in Marco’s arms, that nobody else really knows this side of Marco. That for the most part people just see the earnest, idealistic soldier, the encouraging mentor, the conciliator, the steady anchor. They don’t know about his slyly teasing sense of humor, how he’s sometimes startlingly forward, sometimes shy, the deep calm that he wraps around the two of them, the expression that he wears when he’s overcome.

Jean settles back against Marco’s chest, moves his arm to entwine their fingers. And safe in that shelter, the tension in his muscles finally easing, he relaxes something else inside, tentatively, letting his body return to what it truly is.

**Author's Note:**

> OMAKE:  
> Jean: “So about those sheep.”  
> Marco: *romantic gaze* “Don’t worry, Jean. You’re the only quadruped for me.”  
>  
> 
> Marco is a little unclear on the concept of the cervix, but luckily for him and Jean there is in fact nothing any farther up in there. (This headcanon is an mpreg-free zone.) 
> 
> I hope that my treatment of Jean's intersexuality has been respectful and not hurtful to anyone. Comments and criticisms are more than welcome.


End file.
